


Certainly No Laughing Matter

by alkjira, Bead



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Beorn's House, Dorks in Love, Eventual Smut, First Time, M/M, No the smut is coming, WIP, We hope, pun intended, trust us
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-04 05:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5321426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alkjira/pseuds/alkjira, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bead/pseuds/Bead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bilbo is just very vexed over being in love with Thorin, and Thorin would like for Bilbo to get some proper clothes. (Then maybe he'd stop dreaming about pressing kisses to collarbones.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I (alkjira) cunningly lured Bead into writing this fic with me over on tumblr, and it's still a work in progress. But since it was getting quite long we thought it was time to plant it properly over here.
> 
> I (bead) am grateful to have such a glorious idea to ~~steal~~ build off of! It IS a WIP, and there WILL be smut....I just need to give my dominant arm some time, it's acting up a bit. 
> 
> Honestly, Bilbo being annoyed by falling in love was just....I could SEE his little face, and then I could see THORIN'S bewildered, "Why am I thinking about him so much? Why is he wearing so few clothes? What color, exactly, is his hair?" And not being able to look at Bilbo after a racy dream.....mmmm good stuff.

The feeling of being terribly vexed comes along much before Bilbo figures out why he is annoyed with Thorin in the first place.

It starts with an idea of how Thorin is just not _necessary_ , or rather how Thorin is _entirely_ not necessary with his eyes and his voice and his Valar-damned thighs and arms and hands and just, argh!

Bilbo was quite happy being a confirmed bachelor with all that entailed. He hadn’t asked for an uninvited house guest who first kept him up half the night with soft humming (Thorin’s voice is just not _fair_ ) and who then gave him very uncomfortable dreams. _Very_ uncomfortable dreams.

(Bilbo hadn’t had that kind of uncomfortable dreams since he was a tween.)

But fine, that’s- he can handle it. Thorin seems to be an arrogant arsehole anyway. Fine. That’s good. It’s for the best. Indeed.

(Still, Thorin’s everything is still very unnecessary and Bilbo would like to make a formal complaint and point out that he’d not have fallen off his pony nearly as often if it hadn’t been for Thorin’s everything distracting him.)

And THEN, Thorin reveals himself to be nice! And sweet, and surprisingly humble. How dare he! Bilbo definitely did not ask for this!

His annoyance builds and builds, and after the Eagles has dropped them off at the Carrock and Thorin starts in on Bilbo, that’s when the Hobbit snaps (just moments before Thorin can get to the ‘never been so wrong’-part of the proceedings).

Bilbo is _entirely_ fed up. He thinks that he must have imagined Thorin being nice. So he starts reading Thorin the riot act, and has worked up quite the bit of steam before Thorin manages to get a word in edgewise.

And Thorin apologies. And hugs him. And Bilbo is stunned.

Only when they’re safe at Beorn does the shock really fade, and as Bilbo tries to fall asleep (next to Thorin no less) he realises that he’s still bloody well _livid_.

He contemplates waking Thorin up and yelling at him for being such a lovely, attractive person, but before he can do so he has a moment of revelation and ends up almost choking to death on laughter instead.

All at once he realises how silly he’s been. It’s not Thorin’s fault. None of it. Well, except the times when he has acted like an arse.

Bilbo is practically vibrating with suppressed giggles, trying not to wake anyone, but Thorin has always been a light sleeper.

“What are you doing?” Thorin asks, his voice managing to be both soft and rough. His eyes are very blue. Very very unfairly blue. But suddenly that’s not upsetting anymore.

And Bilbo, still giggling, just shakes his head. “I have no idea,” he breathes, and then he closes the small distance between them and kisses Thorin.  
  
-

Where Bilbo is vexed Thorin is mostly just confused. Deeply, deeply confused.  
  
The Hobbit is not necessary, except that he is, because of the quest and the dragon.  But he’s so….short haired and _barefoot_. He walks about with his feet and ankles bare and it’s very very, perplexing.  

How can he go out in the world like that, so unprepared, save a tiny rucksack barely adequate for a morning's march. Thorin doesn't understand.

And because he doesn't understand, he finds himself spending far too much time puzzling over the burglar. The things he seems to value. At first, Thorin is affronted at his fussy nature, his dislike of sleeping rough, having to endure the weather. Soft. Soft and so- Unprepared. The hobbit is truly unprepared, but soon, Thorin is watching the way the burglar tries to help, the way he can - after awhile - find a way to laugh, to share a story, to help prepare meals and gather wood. Thorin notes the burglar's wariness of him (which is painful but... he cannot be responsible for one so... unprepared. And he is the leader. )

He finds himself helplessly watching, in the quiet moments as they travel, despite himself, finds himself keeping an eye out, wanting, wanting to make sure. He finds himself contemplating the most ridiculous things like burglar’s hair… what colour is it? Sandy blondish brownish reddish a bit silver…what do you call that?

It is almost scandalously (for a Dwarf) short, yet there are curls framing his face, making his eyes - the deepest, deepest blue - seem all the larger and his neck is nearly bare, and vulnerable, which is just…Mahal wept.  
  
Bilbo wears next to nothing anyway, no armour, no boots, just a shirt and jacket and waistcoat. All that would be fine if they were deep within a mountain, well protected, or around the Hobbit’s surprisingly charming and sensibly partially underground home, but out on a quest, he’s practically romping around in his sleep clothes, which. Which.

Which when Master Baggins bends his head, Thorin can trace (with his eyes) the line of his throat all the way down to the notch of his collarbones it just. He just. He just feels… he wants…

He wants to do better. Yes. For all his strange... innocence of the world the hobbit has done well. They should have better care for him, he, they, _the company_ , should have better care. Well, they do, for the most part, but he is still so small and so... unprotected and _bare_.

They should do better by him, this small Hobbit that saved him. Master Baggins. They should. Yes. They should really find him a warmer coat, is what Thorin tells himself he wants.

Thorin dreams of his mouth pressed against soft skin, the flutter of a pulse against his lips, his hands spanning Bilbo’s shoulders, his thumbs teasing the soft, thin skin over his collarbone.

Of bending near, and tracing his fingers across the Bilbo’s cheek, chasing his comely blush. He dreams of bending close, and closer still, of unsteady breaths and shivers of want.

He wakes before their lips touch and does not know what makes him more furious, his own bewildering want, the burglar, or that he was robbed of the rest of his dream.

Every time it happens Thorin cannot look or speak with the hobbit for several days after. He wants…

He wants.

  
-

Bilbo is not sure what he expected Thorin to do upon finding himself kissed by a (bordering-on-hysterically) giggling Hobbit, but the slow blink and look of almost confusion still manages to surprise Bilbo enough that he stops snickering.

“This is not a dream,” Thorin says, the words balancing on the edge of becoming a question.

His breath is warm against Bilbo’s face, a little stale, but not so much that Bilbo can stop the shivering and the slow throb of want blooming in his belly. That voice will never stop being unfair, of that he’s certain.

“Not a dream,” Bilbo agrees. “Very much awake.” He looks around. “Though I do believe that we are the only ones.”

Thorin’s eyes widen a little and Bilbo has a sudden and bright revelation of what that might have sounded like, what two people who have just kissed might get up to whilst everyone else is sleeping.

“Not that we- or you I should say, because I- though obviously not here, but-”

It is rather possible that Bilbo’s mouth would have continued on until dawn if a large rough hand hadn’t cupped the side of his face with exquisite gentleness.

“Are you in the business of stealing kisses now, Master Burglar?” Thorin asks, his thumb stroking along Bilbo’s cheek and the greedy little wanting thing in Bilbo’s stomach transforms into a creature which _needs_.

“I wouldn’t like to think of it as stealing,” Bilbo says, inching a little closer until his knees bumps into Thorin’s. “Borrowing perhaps.”

“Borrowing?”

Bilbo nods, and inches a little closer still. “Which means that any time you would like to get them back…”

Thorin’s gaze flicks down, and then back up, and he licks his lips. “Very well.”  
  
-

For a long, breathless moment, still not quite believing this is not a dream, Thorin simply gazes at Bilbo, admires the way the flickering light of the fire gilds his face and hair. 

It’s difficult to believe it’s real when Bilbo takes a deep, shuddering breath and turns his cheek slightly into Thorin’s hand, eyes closed and yearning into the touch like Dís’ cat, languid and luxurious.  So soft, his skin is so soft.

When his mouth parts on his sigh, Thorin traces the lower curve of Bilbo’s lip and cannot help but lick his own lips again.

“But- I do not wish to borrow your kisses, burg-Bilbo.” His voice comes out in a low, wanting rasp and something deep inside Thorin thrills to use the Hobbit’s name (his true name?) in such a moment.

Bilbo stiffens and moves to pull back slightly, his eyes confused, and with a resignation that makes Thorin _hurt_.

Thorin moves with him, making a hushing, soothing sound before he can gather his wits to say, “You mistake me. I do not wish to borrow them. I wish to keep them for very own.”

Bilbo’s hand comes up to clutch at Thorin’s forearm, and he reaches out for Thorin’s hand, and when Thorin catches it in his own, Bilbo laces their fingers together and gives Thorin as deep a glance as he has ever had.  

It catches fire in him, and he lets his hand drift from Bilbo’s cheek to where he dreamed of, settled with his thumb stroking the thin skin of his collarbone, and it takes a great deal to not lean in now, take his mouth, pull him close. But he must wait just a moment more.

“And if you keep them, what will you leave me with?” Bilbo asks, flatteringly breathless, and not bothering to hide his trembling.  

Want and something deeper than want is roaring in Thorin’s ears, his breast, but he manages to get the words out.  “Myself.  I shall leave you myself.”

Bilbo makes a soft sound of longing, deep in his throat, his eyes falling shut, and Thorin is breathing like a bellows, hanging onto Bilbo as he waits, rooting himself to the floor as his own longing begins to cause tremors in his own frame.

Bilbo opens his eyes.  “Then take them. They are yours.”

And it is the moment in his dream, where Thorin leans closer, and closer still, Bilbo’s eyes almost black with want, the deepest of blues around the rim. Thorin must cup his cheek again, precious and soft, finding the perfect angle.

“My knees are going to give out,” Bilbo informs him, laughter and nerves bubbling under his words, and Thorin draws him deeper into his arms.  

“Then rest against me,” he murmurs, nuzzling at Bilbo with nose and lips and beard, tiny almost-kisses, teasing them both.  A breath later Thorin realises he’s jumped over proposals and gone straight into the promises of the marriage bed, and he does not care.

Bilbo tilts his chin up just a bit, asking, and Thorin cannot wait a moment more.  
  
-  
  
It’s one of the more difficult things he’s ever done, waiting for Thorin’s kiss. Not because Bilbo does not want the kiss, no, but because he wants it so very much, and he wants- no _needs_ Thorin to want it just as much.

Bilbo has no idea just when he fell in love with the Dwarf in front of him but he’s beyond caring at this point. It doesn’t matter when, or where or why, or how, all that matter is that they’re here now. Together.

It’s proper to close your eyes for a kiss, but Bilbo wants to see, so he keeps his eyes open as Thorin tilts his head to the side and-

Just then Bombur lets out a particularly loud snore and Bilbo and Thorin both startle a little, a hiccuping giggle escaping from Bilbo’s lips.

“We’re both a little bit mad, aren’t we?” he whispers, squeezing Thorin’s hand. “Doing this here.”

A somewhat complicated expression flits over Thorin’s face and Bilbo has enough time to worry that he really put his foot in it, but then a small smile quirks Thorin’s lips.

“Of this particular madness I would not wish relief.”

And there’s not enough time for Bilbo to process that before he’s being kissed.

It starts out just as lips against lips; much too innocent for the way Bilbo’s spine is threatening to melt.

Despite not wishing to Bilbo finds that he’s closed his eyes, and he forces them open, not wanting to miss a single moment.

Of course he can’t see much with Thorin’s face all but pressed against his own, but the first thing he sees is the soft fans of Thorin’s dark lashes against his cheeks and he’s struck with the realisation that  it’s perhaps the first time he’s thought to use ‘soft’ to describe Thorin, and it makes a thrill of pleasure and something close to smugness pass through him.

It feels as if he’s been let in on a terribly secret secret, and he’s so very pleased that he’s been allowed to see this side of Thorin.

When Thorin’s lips part on a shaky exhale Bilbo deepens the kiss, hand trailing up from Thorin’s shoulder into his hair, which is also soft, running like silk through his fingers.

Thorin’s lips are impossibly soft as well, and even though the skin of his hands and fingers are rough his touch is so gentle, so soft, and Bilbo wishes he could feel Thorin’s hands all over his body.

He wishes that they could both undress so he could discover if there are other parts of Thorin which are delightfully soft.

He already knows about most of the hard ones; the one beginning to press against his belly very much included. But no, they can’t do such things here, and they can’t even go outside lest they be eaten - or worse - by their absent host, and it all seems incredibly unfair.

They’re both breathing rather heavily by the time they pull back from the kiss and Bilbo rests his head against Thorin’s chest and sternly tells himself that he’s not to rut against Thorin’s leg like a wild wanton thing.

“I’m not sure I can sleep now,” Bilbo confesses, his heart pounding away against the inside of his chest.

Thorin takes his time replying, indulging in those slow, teasing caresses, brushing their noses together, lips glancing across Bilbo’s, feather light.  He then nuzzles at his cheek and jaw as if to map Bilbo’s face with the touch of his lips, a touch so slow and yes, soft, yes, soft.  So gentle, but Thorin’s hands, one of which has fallen to Bilbo’s hip, clutch at him tightly, possessively, and flex against Bilbo with clearly banked want. It is, at the very least, intoxicating.   

The barest of scrape of teeth against the edge of Bilbo’s jaw, followed a slow, lush kiss to soothe sends sparks rushing through Bilbo’s body, has his head falling back without a thought to offer more room, has him clamping his jaw to muffle a moan.  Thorin’s breath hitches slightly, mouth resting against Bilbo’s skin, his hands try to tug Bilbo even closer.  

Bilbo gasps in response, seeing,feeling, all too keenly _aware_ of the tremors running through Thorin’s muscles, little gaps in the armour of his restraint.  Bilbo’s hips attempt to stutter forward on their own, but Thorin has him held fast and oh my oh _my_ , that’s rather…..  

A sort of a growl bursts free and he tightens his own hands on Thorin, tugging a wee bit too hard and before he can summon the wit to apologize, Thorin, oh Thorin, the sound he makes, oh sweet Yavanna, and he bites, oh oh, tenderly bites at the tendon of Bilbo’s neck, just under his jaw, once and again, a bit harder, and Bilbo turns his head to muffle his longing moan against his own arm, nearly keening.

Thorin’s hand slides under his cheek, urging him to turn and then his mouth is slanting over Bilbo’s, slow and hungry, and it’s making Bilbo the tiniest bit angry that he’s still got so much control when Bilbo’s knees are actually giving out, so he tugs on Thorin’s hair again, hard and sharp, and Thorin makes that sound again, deep and low as thunder, and shudders in Bilbo’s arms, and oh, oh teeth tugging at his lower lip.  

Something bright and wild shivers under Bilbo’s heart, and he’s never, ever felt like this with a lover, is this what it feels like when you love - never felt like this ever he didn’t know it could be….he pushes himself closer, adding his own nips, and Thorin, another mighty shiver running through him, tears himself away from the kiss.

“Sleep, my -”  Thorin strokes his cheek with his knuckles, pressed so close Bilbo can feel his chest lift as he catches his breath and sighs.   “My dearest Bilbo, sleep is the furthest thing from my mind,” his voice is so deep, all smoke and silk and Bilbo, Bilbo he can’t….he’s not…..

“Please, please, find us somewhere more private, love, or the next time you touch me I shall make an all too quick and all too public end to the evening.”

Thorin brushes his nose against Bilbo’s cheek.  “Or simply enjoy the first flush of a fine night,” he rumbles, and slides his body very slowly against Bilbo’s.  

“I will swoon right here, you romantic clot, see if I don’t.”  His scolding tone is marred by the soft noises he’s holding back as Thorin maps the edge of his jaw with tongue and teeth and lips.  There may have been a whimper.  

The clunk of the door latch breaks the spell, and heavy wood of it scrapes against the floor.  They break apart with a concerned look (Bilbo) and a soft snarl (Thorin.)  A deeper scruff of noise comes from the entryway as the dogs wake and rush by, and Thorin clutches Bilbo back to his side so quickly, Bilbo all but falls into him.  

With an apologetic glance, he steadies Bilbo, tucking him against his side for a moment, then, once he’s found his feet, slides Bilbo behind him, and holds with a momentary iron grip, clearly indicating Bilbo is to stay there as he draws a long knife.  Bilbo, a bit drunk on kisses and revelations, blinks his way to clarity, spits out a bit of the fur from Thorin’s coat, and peers around his arm.  

“Shapechanger,” Thorin calls softly. “All is well?” He shifts slightly, as if to remind Bilbo he’s to remain behind him, and Bilbo smacks his arm because good gracious it’s Beorn, but he stays put to shake out his hand.  Ow.

“You do well to be careful, Dwarf.”  Beorn says, not bothered at all that Thorin has a weapon in hand.  He raises his (frankly enormous) hand in peace.  “But all is well.”  He takes a deep breath and his bushy brows fly up.  “And more than well, it seems, yes, Little Bunny?”

Thorin makes a noise like a snarl cut off, and his spine goes poker straight. Bilbo can practically feel him radiating annoyance and embarrassment. This deepens the mirth on Beorn’s face.  He raises the second hand in peace, laughing softly.  “Well and more than well, little lovers.  Try the last stall to the right.”

“I beg your pardon?” Thorin grits out.  Bilbo contemplates for a half-second actually taking a willing mouthful of Thorin’s fur ruff to prevent himself from howling anew with horrified and gleeful laughter, because that suggestion, right out in the open, and Thorin?  Begging someone’s pardon?  What?

Beorn simply picks up one of the spare bedrolls he gifted the company, and tosses it to Thorin, who snatches it out of the air.  “Down that way,” he says, pointing.  “If you value privacy.”

Thorin clutches the bedroll to his chest and nods once. He remains frozen in place as Beorn begins speaking softly to one of the happy dogs pressed against the shapechanger’s shins. As they move off, Thorin turns to Bilbo, a question on his face.  

Bilbo is suddenly very, very aware that they are no longer the only ones awake, because the choir of snores has mostly stopped, and the ones over by Kíli have a certain giggling quality to them.  Not quite meeting Thorin’s eyes, he whispers, “I did ask for… it would be...”

Thorin drifts close enough that he is the only thing in Bilbo’s sight.  “Will you…do you wish?” He murmurs.  

His words dry right up. That rough, soft voice of smoke and thunder and those utterly unfair blue eyes looking at him like, like… It doesn’t much matter that everyone knows, and probably half are awake and eavesdropping, bad as Bracegirdles. It doesn’t, not a whit, if Thorin stands there and looks at him like that, asking Bilbo, asking _for_ Bilbo in a voice like that.  

Face flaming with joy and fine, perhaps a bit of mortification over being caught kissing like a tween, he gets himself two handfuls of fur ruff and manages to breathe out Thorin’s name.  

One heart stopping look in reply and Thorin’s mouth is on his, hot and hungry, and they are moving, wrapped up in one another.  Thorin breaks away long enough to take a brazier with them, one hand still on Bilbo, rough hands, soft touch, his head bending down for another taste, careful, so careful, the fire held out of the way and Bilbo feels as if he is burning hotter than the smouldering embers.

Somehow they make their way to the stall and then he is hanging on to Thorin’s waist, not about to leave off kissing as they wrestle out of their outer layers.  

Thorin tears himself away long enough to sweep his great coat off and onto the clean hay, spreading it out and then the blanket, and then, oh, and then Thorin lies down and holds his hand out and Bilbo reaches back and Thorin’s just been a hand’s breadth away for the whole breathless night, there to touch and hold but also absolutely not enough, it’s not enough.  

Bilbo tugs as he rolls to his back, urging Thorin to come with him, and he’s _there_ , heavy and warm, firm thigh between his and it’s overwhelming and perfect.  Bilbo arches, groaning and not hiding his need very well, and Thorin makes a low hungry sound, surging forward, his cock hot against Bilbo’s hip. Bilbo shudders with pleasure, and realizes dimly, that each time he shivers or moans, it’s echoed by Thorin, and the knowledge that his own want spurs Thorin’s tears another moan from his throat.   

Thorin sighs, deep and shaking, one hand roving over Bilbo, joy and a maybe a bit of making sure this is not a dream still in his touch.  “Am I not too heavy?”

“Mmm, no, just lovely, thank you.”  Bilbo tugs on Thorin’s hair, shifts his hips to rub against Thorin, and gets a lovely growl and a few deep, silky kisses for that.

Long, lovely few moments later, Thorin gentles his kiss and hums softly, soothingly, soft, low hushes, and it strikes Bilbo they are much like the ones he’s picked up from the other Dwarrow for soothing his pony, and huffs a helpless laugh against Thorin’s lips, and the kiss ends as Thorin pulls back, his smile gleaming in the dark.  

“Have my kisses amused you?” he murmurs in that ridiculous voice, the one that makes Bilbo flush and yearn.  

“Oh, quite diverting, I assure you,”  Proud of his ability to gather his wits, he reaches up to trace the curve of Thorin’s lower lip, deep red and kiss-swollen.  “It’s just that you were making pony-shushing noises and….”

Thorin gently nips Bilbo’s thumb, and greatly daring, Bilbo presses lightly on Thorin’s lip, and with a scorching look, Thorin draws Bilbo’s thumb into his mouth.  He hollows his cheeks and lavishly sucks, holding Bilbo’s eyes, and Bilbo feels utterly naked under his gaze.  Thorin curls his tongue and there is another graze of his teeth, and Bilbo cannot help but arch up, groaning, utterly drunk on this, soft mouth, nipping teeth, it’s just...he can’t…he needs….

Thorin frowns, and pulls away from Bilbo’s thumb with a soft growl, his hand firm and grounding on Bilbo’s belly.  Humor sparkling in his eyes, he makes hushing sounds again, his mouth quirked in apology.

“I meant to slow us a moment before….” And his gaze turns awkward and a bit shy.

“Is something wrong?”  

Thorin sweeps a comforting hand from Bilbo’s belly to his cheek, thumb caressing the arch of his cheekbone.  “No, no beloved, far from it.  I merely wished to…. “  He ducks his head, then raises his gaze, and what Bilbo sees… his chest fills with joy and light and, oh, it catches his breath that look, as clear as any words.  

“I do not offer myself lightly,” he rasps.   

“Nor I, Thorin, nor I.”  

Thorin is clearly bracing himself for something, despite everything, and Bilbo tries to ground him with touch, to offer as much tenderness as he can.

“I...I would-,” Thorin’s voice is even, but his gaze slides away. “If this be some passing midnight pleasure….”

“I’m quite sure it’s later than that….” Bilbo teases gently, and reaches up curve his hand around Thorin’s cheek in turn, to reassure, to offer up his own his own confessing gaze.  Thorin’s breath hitches, and Bilbo adds softly,    “It’s far, far later than that, for me, Thorin.  In fact it is far too late to do anything but stay.”

He must to close his eyes a moment, and why it is so difficult to get these words out, to make sure, Thorin does not know, for there is such promise in Bilbo’s gaze, in his so open, expressive face.

“Before,” he grits out.  “I offered for you to rest against me.”   

Bilbo huffs out a breath of a laugh.  “I remember. You were making me rather weak in the knees.”   

“It is part of one of our…it is…”

“Part of something lovely?”  Thorin has to turn his face and kiss Bilbo’s palm because he is making this so much easier.  

“It is what one offers to a spouse.  To offer oneself for rest, protection….”

“Love.”

Thorin takes a deep breath, grateful, so grateful. “Yes, beloved.”

Bilbo's breath catches, and his gaze deepens further, so clever. “Much like wedding vows.”

“They are. When one comes to the marriage bed, one may offer....”

“Don’t you….is it not a giv-? ”

“It is hoped,” Thorin speaks over him, and nudges his nose against Bilbo’s in apology.  “Hoped that each....” he whispers.  

Bilbo presses his fingers against Thorin’s lips and waits until Thorin can lift his gaze.  

“Thorin,” he says, his voice so kind, so tender. “My bed’s a bit far from here, but come, beloved.  Rest against me.”

All Thorin can do in reply is whisper Bilbo’s name and lean down to offer a kiss.  A breath later, Bilbo’s hands are in his hair, fitting their mouths together perfectly, his answering kisses in turns sweet and hungry, and he cannot not help but sigh and gather his hobbit close as can be.  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we welcome you back to the second part (well, technically we wrote the first bit in many many parts but- yeah).
> 
> We hope you enjoy :)

Bilbo arches into him in reply and Thorin growls, desire roaring back and he sinks into it, finally letting his hands roam and tug at the infuriatingly tiny buttons of Bilbo’s shirt, finally getting warm smooth skin.  

Nothing has ever felt like such a bewildering mix of wonder and finality before.    
  
That morning Thorin hadn’t had any idea that this was how his night would end; he could say that he’d not even dared to dream about such a possibility but that’s wrong, because dreams he’s had plenty. Dreams and hopes. And plenty of doubt.   


But at the same time, to have Bilbo in his arms, to be given this chance, it feels as if Thorin has been waiting his whole life for such a moment, wanting, hoping that it would come. To hold Bilbo like this, to lie with him like this, it is  _ right _ . It’s true. It’s… more than Thorin could have imagined that he could get, but exactly what he was waiting for. Something that he did not only want, or need, but something he was missing, just as one would a limb.   
  
The feeling of completion does not make things less urgent, but it fills Thorin with a sense of amazement as he jerks Bilbo’s shirt free from his trousers, sliding his hands up underneath it, finding more skin to explore.   
  
Bilbo trembles beneath his touch and Thorin knows it’s urgency because he feels the same heat rushing through him. It calls to him with every beat of his heart.   
  
It’s a minor miracle that they manage to undress without ripping cloth or sending buttons flying, and perhaps they don’t quite manage. Thorin is far beyond caring about such trivialities. Every inch of Bilbo’s skin bared before him is enchanting, and he is not only allowed to look, he may also touch. And he may not only touch, he is also caressed in return.    
  
Seeing the bruised skin that, despite Gandalf’s intervention, still is a lingering green and yellow reminder of what happened before the Eagles carried them away Bilbo’s touch turns light as morning fog as his fingers traces over Thorin’s ribs.   
  
“I’m fine,” Thorin promises and Bilbo looks up at him, teeth worrying his own bottom lip.   
  
“You’ll tell me if I hurt you?”   
  
“I will. You haven’t so far,” Thorin adds, gently stroking his thumb over Bilbo’s mouth as he starts tormenting his poor bottom lip once more. He had not meant for Bilbo to mirror what he did earlier, but when his thumb is gently nipped before being sucked into the hot wetness of Bilbo’s mouth Thorin groans low in his throat, closing the distance between them to claim the attention now giving to his thumb.  
  
Bilbo arches against him again and Thorin wraps one arm around his back, holding him as they kiss and kiss and kiss until all the air has gone and even then they do not stop. Thorin’s head spins as he finally pulls away, and he sucks in a heaving breath as Bilbo moans and tightens his hold on Thorin’s shoulders, pressing open mouthed kisses against his jaw.  
  
“Do Hobbits not need to breathe?” Thorin asks, half in jest, but only half.   
  
“Of course but, I find…oh Thorin,” Bilbo murmurs, an ache in his voice that ignites something in Thorin, something that has him groaning and catching Bilbo’s mouth again with his, but they’re both so needing and breathless that very shortly Bilbo’s soft, intoxicating love sounds turn to weak laughter against Thorin’s mouth. 

It’s catching, his bubble of joyful, rueful laughter.  Thorin finds himself laughing as well, and the need in him transmutes, just for a moment, to keep Bilbo laughing, and so he offers playful feints and darts, teasing Bilbo into chasing after the next kiss.  

He admits something to himself, finally, and cups Bilbo’s cheek as he draws away, presses their foreheads together. “ _ I _ find,” he confides.  “That I love this sound, the music of your laughter….”  

“Hardly, music,” Bilbo scoffs, the smile plain in his voice. His hand, stroking Thorin’s chest, almost petting, is very distracting, and Thorin traps his hand over his heart.  

“I know my music.”  

“I remember.  Your voice….I could listen to you sing….I  _ did  _ listen to you sing until I fell asleep that night.”  Bilbo’s eyes flick up to his and that is a look that is very hard not to offer a kiss of thanks, joy for, but this seems important.    

“I have done the same, listening to you laugh and tell stories with the company.  I do not often sleep easily….” 

“I know.”  The concern in his voice is such that Thorin cannot help but touch to soothe, and kisses Bilbo’s forehead.  

“I have fallen asleep to the music of your laughter and had such dreams, Bilbo.  Such wonderful dreams. Things I never dared hope, and gift for which I have yet to offer thanks.”  

Another soft breath of laughter.  “I was going to say a moment ago that I find, I felt….” He stirs, pressing closer, and tilts his face,nuzzles in, brushing his nose and lips over Thorin’s, feather light, a caress that cannot help but make Thorin smile, knowing exactly where he learned it.  

“I felt for a moment that  _ this _ tonight, must be a dream. I’ve been telling myself that I was annoyed with you, for distracting me so, all this time.” 

“ _ All _ this time?” Thorin catches the plush of his lower lip on the next pass and sucks on it gently.  

Bilbo shudders happily, huffs and tugs gently on Thorin’s hair, “Well, honestly, I was vexed with  _ everyone _ for a good while that first night,” he confesses.  “Up until the point I fainted and then it turned into…”  He pauses for a great while.  

“Turned into?” Thorin prompts.

Bilbo’s smile is shy.  “I understood, I thought, the longing for home in your song. The pride and love in it.”  

“A Baggins of Bag End.” 

“Just so.”  He tugs again on Thorin’s hair, firmly this time, and Thorin cannot help longing groan, deep in his chest.  “I had some most uncomfortable dreams, Thorin Oakenshield.  Most vexing.”  

“Mmmm,” Thorin purred.  “How so?” 

“You are everything I did not expect at this point in my life,” his voice hitches as he rubs himself slowly against Thorin, all soft skin, and Thorin pulls Bilbo’s leg over his hip to press closer.  “Challenge.  Adventure.”

“Need,”  Thorin whispered in the space between them as they rocked together. “Love.”  

“Yes,” Bilbo groans, that ache in his voice again.  “Love. Rest against me.”  

“ _ Mahal _ . Bilbo.  That you say such a thing.  That you understand.”  

“I want it.  Want you.”  

“Yes.  Please.  Stay with me, rest...  Ah!” Bilbo’s clever hand had found his cock and began to stroke.  “Beloved, I….if you continue I will surely…” 

“First flush, you said.  First flush of a fine night.”  

“Wicked Hobbit,” Thorin catches his mouth and slides his hand down Bilbo’s chest, tweaking a nipple on the way, wraps his hand around them both and grins at the choked moan and gasp he gets in reply.  

-  
  
“Should I tell you what I dreamt of?” Bilbo asks when he finds his breath again. Perhaps a distraction would do them both some good. Keep things… brewing, for a little longer. “That night in Bag End?”   
  
He still remembers the dream with astounding clarity, which… perhaps is not that strange. Not considering that numbers of times he has recalled it after the fact.    
  
Wicked… wicked is a good word for it, and Thorin seems to sense this because he quirks an eyebrow and his hand tightens, making Bilbo’s breath disappear once more.

“Go on,” he says, as if he’s not doing things that are so very distracting.    
  
Bilbo huffs. Then again what else is new under the sun. Being distracting on purpose is surely an improvement in the grand scheme of things.   
  
“I dreamt,” Bilbo confesses. “That there was a knock on my door. My bedroom door. Quite enough knocking on my front door that evening as it was.”  
  
Thorin snorts, a warm puff of breath at the side of Bilbo’s face. “At least we were all polite.”   
  
“Don’t you start,” Bilbo warns, poking Thorin in the shoulder. “As I was saying, there was a knock on my door.”   
  
“A polite knock?” Thorin murmurs and Bilbo pokes him again, which causes Thorin to retaliate by rolling his hips and rubbing their cocks together in the firm confinement of his hand, and Bilbo should have known that Thorin would not stop being entirely  _ unfair  _ just because they were naked together.    
  
Indeed not, Bilbo concludes as his gaze travel down from Thorin’s smiling eyes to the rest of him.    
  
He would need many more hands to span the width of Thorin’s chest, and Bilbo only has two. But he is more than willing to make up for that lack with sheer determination. He lets his hand travel from Thorin’s shoulder down to his breast; feeling the unfamiliar tickle of hair beneath his hand as he does so, Bilbo then brings up his other hand to rest them both on the thick muscle of Thorin’s middle. 

He hesitates a moment, for despite Thorin’s reassurance, bruises still litter Thorin’s skin, chiefly that great spot on his chest, a healing but grave shadow beneath the hair that makes Bilbo swallow hard.  

Thorin leans down to offer a gentle kiss.  “Truly, beloved. The wizard did a great deal of healing and took nearly all pain. What is left,” he adds, speaking over the noise of protest BIlbo makes, and shifts to press Bilbo’s hand to his skin.  “Is naught to having you in my arms.” 

“If you are  _ sure _ I’m not hurting you.” 

Another kiss, long and lush, that takes Bilbo’s breath again. “I am sure that any touch from you is pleasure itself.” 

“Flatterer.” 

Thorin very unfairly sucks on Bilbo’s lower lip. “I speak nothing but the truth.” 

“Mmhmm,” he replies dubiously, but lets his hands roam down the plane of Thorin’s belly once more. 

“Your dream,” Thorin reminds him in a pleasingly shaky whisper when Bilbo hand strays low.

This is not one of the soft places on Thorin, but intriguing even so, and Bilbo tugs lightly, lightly on the hair growing thicker there, nestling his fingers into it, watching for Thorin’s reaction as he tugs again.   
  
“A knock,” he says, aiming for stern, managing breathless. “I asked the one who was knocking to come in. And it was you.”   
  
When Thorin licks his lips Bilbo’s attention is naturally captured once more, and there simply is no stopping the kiss that he has to deliver to those lips in that moment. He has spent so much of his life not kissing Thorin, which once again, seems incredibly unfair.    
  
“I believe I like this dream,” Thorin whispers as they part, and his voice sends a new shiver of want down Bilbo’s spine.    
  
“You were wearing your coat,” Bilbo describes, a smile tugging at his lips. “And nothing else.”   
  
There is a moment’s silence. “I was what?”   
  
“No need to sound like that, it was very flattering,” Bilbo promises, shivering at the memory. “You were… quite pleased to see me.”   
  
“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed-” Thorin’s hand slowly rubs at the both of them, callouses sliding against Bilbo’s most sensitive skin but it’s lovely, oh so lovely. And Thorin’s cock is also lovely, hot and hard against his own.  And soft, his skin his so silky soft. “But I am quite pleased to see you now.”   
  
“I’ve noticed.” And Bilbo does not understand why Thorin asked him if Hobbits did not need to breathe before, considering that he can’t seem to catch his breath now. “Would you- would you like to know what you did in my dream?”   
  
“Did you enjoy it?”   
  
Bilbo shudders. “Very much so.” He closes his eyes for a moment, to draw the details of the dream closer. “You closed the door behind you, and you walked over to the bed. Because I was in it, the bed.”   
  
“And what were you wearing?”    
  
“Nothing,” Bilbo breathes. “I wasn’t even under the covers. I was… waiting, for you.”   
  
Something flashes over Thorin’s face, surprise? Bilbo is not sure. Licking his lips he continues. “You, came closer. Your coat, it was long enough to drag behind you on the floor, but you undid the clasp for it, letting it slide off your shoulders as you climbed onto the bed.”   
  
“And then?”   
  
Bilbo has to swallow before he can speak. “You kissed me, but not- not my lips.”   
  
Thorin’s eyes are dark. “Where then?” He bends his head and presses his mouth to roundness of Bilbo’s shoulder, the scratch of his beard a rough tickle. “Here?”

“Lower.”   
  
“Here?” Bilbo squirms as Thorin’s lips close around his nipple, and gasps as Thorin’s tongue flicks over the sensitive bud. At the barely there brush of teeth all of Bilbo’s bones feel at a risk of liquefying.    
  
“ _ Lower _ .” He hardly recognises his own voice.    
  
Thorin’s hand is no longer curled around their cocks but Bilbo does not have time to mourn that loss before he’s being quite thoroughly distracted again by Thorin kissing him. On his lips this time. Devouring him. But that’s more than all right because Bilbo wants to give all of himself, getting all of Thorin in return.

“I think I know where you wish to lead me,” Thorin rasps, and if Bilbo hadn’t been so lost he would have liked to feel a bit smug about how Thorin sounded as wrecked as Bilbo feels. “In your dream, did I take you in my mouth?”   
  
“Yes,” Bilbo confirms, the last air escaping his lungs in a hiss. “You-you did.”   
  
In his dream Thorin had crawled up onto the bed with a grace that had taken his dream self’s breath away. In reality Thorin kisses him again before pushing himself up and scrambling down; almost squishing Bilbo as he does so, cursing, before settling himself between Bilbo’s legs which have spread themselves wide for him without first asking Bilbo’s permission. Not that he wouldn’t give it. And lack of grace or not, Bilbo’s breath is still trapped in the top of his chest and he has to force himself to breathe deeply as not to faint.    
  
Since Thorin is no longer on top of him breathing surely should be easier? But not so. Not when Thorin is nestled down between his thighs, licking his lips and looking as if he’s been going without since yesterday’s second breakfast.    
  
“I want to,” Thorin says, his voice low, and unmistakingly  _ hungry _ . 

-   


Thorin has spent enough time with Bilbo, not to mention fallen asleep enough times to tales of Hobbit life, to have learnt a great deal about what is and isn’t proper.   
  
One of the first things he realised was that a lot of things appear to be connected to handkerchiefs. But the subject of proper also covers such things as not swimming in fountains, not eating with your hands, and being worried about not being polite enough to their host even when he is a great big bear.   
  
Thorin licks his lips again and watches as Bilbo’s eyes follow the movement, watches Bilbo as he gulps in a shaky breath, the way his throat flexes as he swallows. How his cock twitches against his belly.

On the few occasions when (not counting the times when he’d been asleep) Thorin has allowed himself to imagine this, part of him has not expected Bilbo to want- well... He has not expected Bilbo want as much as he himself wants. Kissing, yes, touching, yes, but-   
  
Thorin does not take Bilbo for an innocent, but there are certain things a great many people find not to be… proper. Not that you would be able to look at Bilbo now and know that he wished to turn their entire expedition around for the want of a handkerchief.    
  
Bilbo’s curls are tousled and uncombed and the light coming from the brazier gilds his edges and enhances the deep flush on his cheeks and chest. He lies entirely bare before Thorin’s gaze, trembling with desire, and it’s all for Thorin. Bilbo  _ wants  _ him.    


Bilbo’s hard cock is just in front of him, flushed a deep pink and leaking from the head. Thorin wants it in his mouth. He delights in giving pleasure like that. And if Bilbo dreamt about it, if he wants Thorin to kiss him lower, and  _ lower _ …   
  
“Will you allow me to-”   
  
“Yes,” Bilbo blurts. “Thorin, yes,  _ please- _ ”   
  
Considering their current location the last word was a little louder than necessary and Thorin strokes his hand over the soft skin of Bilbo’s hip and shushes him without thought.   
  
“Don’t  _ shush  _ me,” Bilbo protests. “I’m still not a po- Oh-  _ Oh _ .”   
  
Thorin hides a smile and licks him again, the side of his face still resting lightly against the comforting swell of Bilbo’s belly. His hands slide from Bilbo’s hip and side to stroke down his thighs; peppered with small golden hairs which Thorin finds infinitely delightful.    


Lifting his head Thorin moves back just slightly, gently tugging Bilbo’s thighs upwards. After a moment of confusion Bilbo lets out another soft sound of realisation and lifts his legs enough that they can fall over Thorin’s shoulders.   


The weight of them grounds him, in more than one way, and Thorin lowers his head again and breathes deeply, breathes in Bilbo’s scent.   
  
“I’ve not bathed in-”   
  
“You smell…” Thorin sucks in another breath. “Wonderful.” And he does. “And you taste-” Another lick, a slower more thorough one. “Amazing.” Looking up at Bilbo Thorin smiles and presses his lips against the side of his cock. “Did I kiss you like this?”   
  
“You didn’t  _ tease _ , you horrible, lovely-”    
  
Thorin grunts as Bilbo’s hands find their way into his hair to give a reproachful tug.    
  
“I’m not even sorry,” Bilbo says even as his grip loosens and he pets Thorin’s head apologetically (Thorin has half the mind to ask who is the pony now). “You- you-” Bilbo’s eyes flits over Thorin’s face as if they’re looking for something and then they widen. He tugs on Thorin’s hair again. And again when Thorin lets out another low groan, hips rocking down against the blanket to chase the flash of pleasure running from his scalp and down his spine.   
  
“You  _ like  _ that,” Bilbo says, voice pleased. “I had entirely- that’s what happens when you go and distract me. I forget important things.”   
  
“You keep saying that I distract you,” Thorin huffs, wrapping his hand around Bilbo’s length to remind him what they were in the middle of. “But what of your own actions.”   
  
“I’m not the one who-”   
  
It was quite possible that Thorin was deriving entirely too much pleasure from being able to steal Bilbo’s breath, and even though his lips were wrapped around Bilbo’s cock he could not quite hide his smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From bead: Trust me, y'all, we ain't done! Going as fast as RL will allow!


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